


Chanson Éternelle

by GreenArcher



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Disney References, Experimental Style, F/M, Family, Gen, Headcanon, Prompt Fill, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenArcher/pseuds/GreenArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated one-shots, mostly about Belle and the Beast's lives before, during and after the movie. Special thanks to the <a href="http://z6.invisionfree.com/bittersweet_strange/index.php?act=idx">Bittersweet and Strange forum</a> for the prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Un homme fort et beau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle learns a surprising secret about the Bimbettes while walking home from the bookshop. Based off the prompt: "Write a scene or story that interprets something in the movie in a way that the audience isn't meant to interpret it."

On a cool but sunny day in late September, Belle walked out of Monsieur Poncelet's bookshop with a brand new leather-bound book under her arm. A new shipment of fairy tales had arrived at the bookstore earlier that week, and Belle being the avid reader that she was, wanted to read as many of them as possible before evening arrived and she had to make dinner for her father. It hadn't been her first choice to move to a poor provincial town after her mother's passing, but a bookshop within walking distance, with a bookkeeper who let her borrow his merchandise for free was definitely one of the perks. Books were a refreshing escape from reality, especially when Belle couldn't seem to make friends with anyone else in her quiet village.

Belle had only walked a few doors down from the bookshop however, when she spotted someone who put all her thoughts on reading on hold. Gaston. Great. The one person she didn't want to see now.

Belle was still a newcomer to the village, but she already knew that Gaston – the famous town hunter – was someone she couldn't stand in the least. She wasn't sure what she hated about him more; his overinflated ego, or the fact that he seemed to be under the delusion that she had feelings for him. They had nothing in common past the fact they lived in the same village, yet every time he saw her, he was always inviting her to his tavern, clearly trying to woo her the same way he wooed the Salaun triplets. It made Belle sick just thinking about it. Gaston had no personality outside his ego and no interest in women outside of how they benefited him, personally. She refused to be another trophy to hang on his wall. Spending time with him was the last thing she wanted to do in this village.

Luckily for Belle, escape came in the form of a gap between the Hémons' house and the metalsmith's shop on her left. She quickly slipped between two houses and pressed herself against the brick wall, hoping he hadn't noticed…

"Why hello, gorgeous," said a voice.

She flinched.  _Great. So much for that plan._  Now she'd be wasting ten minutes trying to talk Gaston out of going back to the tavern with him. A full ten minutes she could have spent reading her new book, if only she hadn't taken the main road back to the house...

She looked up, expecting to come face to face with Gaston's enormous chin, but to her surprise, he wasn't there. Peering over the wall, she almost gasped at what she saw. Gaston was staring at his reflection in one of the pans on display in front of the metalsmith's house, flexing his muscles and striking what she believed was a flirtatious pose at himself. Unbelieveable. If Belle needed a picture definition of what a narcissist looked like, the image of Gaston posing for his reflection was all she needed.

"Gaston, we have to go!" LeFou interrupted, appearing behind the hunter with a burlap sack in tow.

Gaston turned away from the pan and glared at his lackey, clearly annoyed by his untimely appearance. "Alright, alright!" he replied, begrudgingly. "I'm coming!" He accompanied LeFou down the street, passing Belle's hiding place without a second glance. Belle sighed in relief. She was safe.

"It's too bad M. Lefebvre doesn't charge Gaston every time he admires himself in those pans of his," a feminine voice said behind her.

"How much money do you think he'd make if he did?" a second voice inquired.

"Enough money to move out of this place, that's for sure," a third voice replied.

The three speakers laughed in unison. Belle spun around, surprised. It seemed that in her haste to avoid Gaston, she hadn't noticed that she wasn't the only one who'd picked the metalsmith's shop as a hiding spot. The Salaun triplets were sitting against the wall across from her, all wearing huge smiles on their faces.

"Marie-Claude, Marie-Laure, Marie-Paule!" she said to them in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching Gaston of course," replied the triplet in the red dress, Marie-Claude. "It's one of our absolute  _favourite_ pastimes."

"He's very entertaining when he thinks no one's paying attention to him," added Marie-Laure, who was wearing an amber dress.

"And hilarious," said her sister, Marie-Paule, who was dressed in green.

"And stupid," said Marie-Claude.

"But I don't understand," Belle said incredulously. "I thought you three were... crazy about Gaston." Every time she saw them with him in public, they were practically swooning over him. What on earth were they talking about?

"Belle, you're new here, so I think you may have the wrong impression about us," Marie-Claude explained. "Of course we  _adore_ Gaston, but we'd be stupid to centre our entire lives around him. We have hobbies, just like you do! I study astronomy and chart stars in my free time. Paule over here grows her own herbs to make medicine. She thinks she may have even come up with a tonic that will make pain more bearable for women during childbirth. And Laure is a painter."

"Women aren't supposed to paint their own portraits without a male teacher's supervision," Marie-Laure revealed to Belle. "I said nuts to that! I told Gaston that we had an artist cousin from Paris who was staying with us for a week and did full body commissions. Of course, Gaston couldn't  _resist_ the chance to have his beautiful physique captured on canvas. So the day our cousin was supposed to arrive, I took some discarded clothes from the patrons in the tavern and came to Gaston's house, pretending to be him. As long as I told Gaston to pose for him, he didn't even seem to care that his painter was a bit on the small size. And now my painting's in the tavern, right above the fireplace."

Belle was speechless. "You painted that portrait? Disguised as a boy?" She'd only seen Gaston's portrait once when she went to the tavern with her father to buy some baking ingredients, but she'd never guessed that one of the triplets was behind it. She may not have liked the subject of the portrait, but she couldn't deny... it was a  _very_ good likeness.

"Mhmm," Marie-Laure said, seeing Belle's surprise. "And I got double the commission fee on it, too. One of the benefits of working with a commissioner who's not that great at numbers."

At the mention of Gaston, Belle remembered the main subject of their discussion. "But you're..."

"Ditzy?" Marie-Claude said, reading her mind.

"Coquettish?" said Marie-Laure, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously.

"Silly?" said Marie-Paule, making a face.

"It's all an act," Marie-Claude explained. "Of course we know that Gaston is full of himself, but with a body like that, who  _wouldn't_ want to marry him? But we can't let him see that we're smarter than him, because then he won't want to marry  _any_  of us _._ "

"Men don't want to be outsmarted by a woman you see, it's totally embarrassing!" Marie-Laure elaborated. "They like someone who's meek, submissive and doesn't talk a lot."

"So we act dumb and flirty around him now, because it will improve our marriage prospects," Marie-Paule concluded.

"Wait a minute," said Belle. "You're saying that you're all pretending to act... dumb, just so you can marry Gaston? Even though you think he's full of himself?"

"Well, no. Just until he proposes marriage to one of us," Marie-Paule clarified. "Then we can act smart again because Gaston will  _think_  his marriage to us made us  _smart._  So it's a win-win situation for everyone, right?"

Belle raised an eyebrow, dubiously. "But what if Gaston doesn't want a wife who's smart, even after he marries?" she asked them. "What if he just wants someone who can cook and clean for him all the time?"

"Oh, Belle,  _all_ unmarried men say that," Marie-Claude giggled. "But deep down inside, what they really want is an  _intelligent_  wife. They just don't admit it aloud because it would damage their precious reputation."

"Besides. Once we get old and our good looks leave us, what else will Gaston be able to boast about?" said Marie-Paule. "Any simpleton can learn to cook and clean. But not every man can brag about how  _witty_  their wife is."

"But if he  _does_ have a problem with our talents," said Marie-Laure, "Well, who says that women can't have power in a marriage too? It's just a matter of pulling the right strings, if you know what I mean."

"Of course you've got nothing to worry about, do you Belle?" said Marie-Paule. "Miss big brown eyes and high cheekbones. With beauty like yours, you don't have to follow  _any_  of those silly courtship rules."

"Plus you've turned him down half-a-dozen times already," Marie-Claude pointed out. "No wonder he thinks you're so irresistible. You're a _natural_ seductress."

Hearing the girls call her a "natural seductress" Belle stood up in anger. "I'm not interested in him!" she retorted. "And I'm not trying to seduce him; I'm trying to  _avoid_ him. I don't want anything to do with him!"

"Whatever you say, Belle," Marie-Paule said, rolling her eyes. "But if I were you, I'd be careful about how I act around him from now on. If you keep playing hard to get with him like this, he'll be asking you to marry him for sure. There's nothing a man loves more than a woman who always refuses him."

Belle's face contorted in disgust. She couldn't stand the idea of being near Gaston, why on earth would he think that she wanted to marry  _him?_ All she'd done since she arrived at the village was distance herself from him – a clear sign that she wanted him to go away, not come closer. "I have to go," she said to the girls, deciding she wanted no further part in this conversation.

"Oh, Belle, wait!" Marie-Laure called out. "You have the most exquisite eyes. I'd love to do a sketching of you, if you'd like to come over sometime."

Belle considered that. "Alright, sure." There was no harm in helping Marie-Laure out with something she loved doing. That, and it would give Belle an excuse to get out of the house for a while. She smiled politely at the triplets and continued on her way.

Returning to the main road, which was now free of Gaston, Belle thought about her discussion with the Salaun girls and their unusual ideas of courtship and marriage. Taken as a whole, she was quite surprised. She already knew that Gaston's view of women was largely flawed, but it seemed that the triplets had some pretty shallow ideas of what men wanted in a relationship, too. Not that Belle believed she was completely above them, of course. After all, she spent her time reading books about people who fell in love with each other at first sight – hardly something that occurred in real life. Still, was it really wrong to believe that there was someone out there who could love her for her, and not because she followed some strange, social script? Belle had believed in true love since her childhood, but her discussion with the Salaun triplets only strengthened her belief that no one in her village shared in that notion. Marriage was just something people took part in because they had to. Nothing more, nothing less.

Shaking her head, Belle opened her new book and started to read. There, she was soon transported into a magical world, free of Gaston, the triplets and the confusion of her provincial life. In time, she forgot the entire conversation with the triplets ever took place.

That was, until a month later, when Gaston came to her house, asking for her hand in marriage.


	2. Le feu intérieur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the May 2015 prompt on Bittersweet and Strange: Lumière is the light of the party, but he is ‘human’ so he must have other emotions as well. Write a scene to display Lumière’s feelings when he’s down in the dumps, during the spell.

"Promise or no promise," the girl said as she yanked open the heavy front door. "I can't stay here another minute!"  
  
"Oh no, wait, please wait!" Cogsworth called desperately. But it was no use. The girl had already slammed the door behind her as she slipped into the wintry night. Their last chance at humanity, gone forever.  
  
Lumière wanted to say that that moment, watching the mademoiselle flee from the castle was the most devastating day of his life, but he knew that was a lie. The most devastating day of his life had occurred nearly ten years before, when he'd first become a candelabrum under the enchantress's brutal curse. He could recall no incident, boy or man, more frightening than discovering his stunning body had been replaced by brass and wax, his legs replaced by a circular base he had to hop on just to move from place to place. And the only way to undo his transformation? His master. A master who had always been a handful growing up, but now truly had a body to match his monstrous personality.  
  
If there was one thing Lumière could say, after he and the rest of the staff had overcome the trauma of becoming household objects, it was that the enchantress was a brilliant woman. For if Lumière had been in the master's shoes, cursed to be a beast for possibly forever, he'd have no trouble charming the socks off the first girl who wandered into the castle. The master wasn't _that_ bad to look at once you got past the massive horns and fangs. But alas, not everyone was as well versed as Lumière in the art of romance. Cogsworth for example, was about as charming as a sack of potatoes when it came to courting members of the opposite sex. Heaven forbid if the master only had  _him_ to help break his spell. And the master, having been spoiled for most of his childhood was an easy a target for the enchantress to prey on. She'd seen his weakness, his lack of love that winter's night and turned him into a monster so he could reflect on his selfish ways. But almost ten years later, he  _still_  hadn't changed. In the course of a day, he'd only succeeded in locking an old man in a dungeon for trespassing, arguing with a girl for refusing to join him for dinner, and now, out of sheer impulsiveness, frightening that same girl right out of the castle. He was digging his own grave and all Lumière and the rest of the staff could do was stand by and watch.  
  
For many years, Lumière had tried to conceal the direness of his master's situation from the rest of the staff. Growing up in a family of hospitality workers, he firmly believed that all hardships could be overcome with a smile, singing, dancing and some good food. But at times like this, watching the master's chance at freedom slip from their fingers, he couldn't help but feel angry. Angry that his master couldn't show a little consideration for the staff and how much they'd suffered. When he thought of his dear Babette, reduced to the degrading form of a feather duster, Mrs. Potts, unable to hold her son in her armless porcelain body, and Cogsworth, who every day had to live with an infernal ticking noise inside his head, he wondered why the master couldn't bother to think of what  _they'd_ all lost now that he had a chance to become human again. Yes, it was not his master's fault he was so ill tempered and couldn't tell right from wrong. It was not his fault that his parents had died so young. It was not his fault that he'd been shipped off to the most secluded castle in the province by an uncle who'd cared more about looking after a kingdom than looking after a nephew. Lumière had just hoped that the years in isolation would improve his master, that he'd  _learn_ something from all this. But nearly ten years had passed, and he'd only grown more reclusive and angry. He was wilting away, just like the rose he kept vigil over in the West Wing. Almost as though the enchantress hadn't intended to redeem him at all.

* * *

Side by side, Cogsworth and Lumière sprinted upstairs to the West Wing. The master was bent over the enchanted rose and didn't even acknowledge the servants as they approached him.  
  
"Master!" Cogsworth said, gasping for breath. "The girl is—"  
  
"—gone," the master finished solemly. "I know."  
  
"And you won't go after her?" Lumière asked, blinking in disbelief.  
  
He shook his head and turned to face the window. "She's better off returning to her father. I was a  _fool_  to think I could keep her here. All I am to her is a monster."  
  
"But sire," Cogsworth said desperately. "It's  _dangerous_  for the girl to be in the woods at night! The wolves are out there, what if they catch her?"  
  
Something like fear flashed in the Beast's blue eyes. He grabbed the mirror next to the bell jar. "Show me the girl," he demanded.  
  
There was a flash of green light. The young woman appeared in the glass, riding straight into a frozen lake with a pack of wolves in hot pursuit. Cogsworth gasped. The situation was even worse than they imagined.  
  
"Master!" Lumière exclaimed. "You  _have_ to do something! If the mademoiselle falls through the ice she could drown or, or freeze to death!"  
  
The Beast returned the mirror to the table, a look of uncertainty passing over his face. His servants awaited his decision with bated breath. Then, as though possessed, he swung his cloak over his back and ran out of the West Wing.  
  
As Lumière watched his master bolt through the doors, he silently prayed that he'd reach the girl before it was too late. It was too soon to hope, but maybe today would be the day he'd finally see a change in him.


	3. L'espoir fait vivre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and the Beast have a small discussion about the portrayal of prince charmings in fairytales. Set within the ‘Something There’ montage from the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a forgotten one-shot I wrote back in 2011, found on one of my old Google accounts recently, and decided to revamp in lieu of the Beauty and the Beast 2017 live action "remake" and the fandom explosion that has arisen as a result of it. Please enjoy!

Winter had come to the castle. In the grounds, a blizzard sent torrents of snow flying past the windows, though their intensity remained quite unnoticed to the young woman and beast sitting in one of the castle’s many parlours, reading a book together by the fireplace. For someone who had never enjoyed reading as a child, the Beast was quickly beginning to warm up to the activity, and wondered if the years he’d spent in isolation might have been more bearable if he’d done a little less yelling and just picked up a book. Of course, maybe the reason he’d never enjoyed reading growing up was because he’d never had someone who’d _motivated_ him to read. Indeed, studying pages of geography, history and foreign languages was hardly a pleasurable pastime for a restless eleven-year-old prince. But having someone read stories aloud to him certainly helped, and as he realized, Belle had a wonderful way of bringing her books to life, almost as though she were putting him under a spell, but a spell of a different kind.

 _How could I force someone so beautiful to live with someone as hideous as me?_ He wondered for the umpteenth time as he watched her read aloud from _The Little Mermaid_. _I must truly be a monster._

Of course, there was that nagging voice in the back of his head that liked to remind him that he hadn’t _always_ been a monster. He only needed to look at the portrait of himself in the West Wing to remember that he’d been a prince once. Maybe not the most handsome one in existence, but at least he’d been _human._ He'd always been tormented by what he’d lost that winter’s night, but now, sitting with someone so beautiful, the anguish of his situation only seemed to amplify. _Even if I_ wasn’t _a Beast, I still wouldn’t have deserved her,_ he reasoned. _I was human in body, but not in soul._

 _“‘Eric! What are you doing?’”_ Belle read aloud from her storybook with a fierce enthusiasm only a lover of books could have. 

_“‘Grim, I lost her once,’ Prince Eric replied. ‘I'm not going to lose her again.’”_

“Why do you always do that?” the Beast asked.

Belle looked up from the book in surprise, as though she’d forgotten that there was someone else in the room with her. “Do what?” she asked the Beast politely.

“Read the prince's lines as if he's some kind of...I don't know...good guy.”

Belle frowned. While she had come to respect the Beast since he’d saved him from the wolves three weeks ago, he did ask her the _oddest_ questions sometimes. “Well the princes in fairy tales are good guys, right?” she replied. “They rescue princesses, they're strong, brave, romantic, handsome, noble, good-hearted and...”

“Or just the ones that you read about,” Beast interrupted. There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice that immediately caught her attention.

“Then what do you think princes are like?” she asked. “Since you brought it up.”

The Beast opened his mouth, wanting to share his opinion, but then realized what he'd be revealing in the process and lowered his ears shamefully. “I—I don't know,” he confessed instead. “But I think it’s stupid to assume they can all be like that. They could be spoiled. Or selfish.” His voice faded. “Or _unkind._ ”

“That doesn't sound like a very nice prince.”

“No,” he said as he turned away from her. “It doesn't.”

He focused his gaze at the floor, and the room fell into an awkward silence. Belle stared at the Beast for a moment, then placed the book on her lap, deciding that Ariel and Prince Eric’s fate could wait for the moment.

She really couldn’t understand the Beast sometimes. There were moments when he was blatantly coarse and unrefined, and other moments, like now, when he seemed so sad and distant, she couldn’t help but pity him. Maybe it wasn’t his fault he was so mean-spirited all the time. While she didn’t know everything about his past, she had deduced, from what she’d heard from his servants and seen in the West Wing, that he’d been confined to this castle for a long time; long enough to make anyone unhappy. He didn’t seem to be so bad once you got past his beastly exterior. If anything, he seemed to be improving. The fact that he was wearing proper clothing now was certainly a nice change. And maybe he was right. Maybe she had only been interpreting her fairy tales from her own idealistic perspective before. Maybe it was time that she put herself in the Beast’s shoes and understood how he felt.

“But I guess you have a point,” she agreed. “Maybe princes in fairy tales are a little too good to be true. I mean, nobody can be that perfect in real life, right?”

The Beast looked up at her, but didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if Belle was being hypothetical or if she was trying to make him feel better.

“There's a man from my village who has a lot of the same characteristics as this prince, only he's so conceited and egotistical, it's no wonder he can keep his head up straight!” she elaborated. “That's not exactly what you'd expect a prince charming to be like, don't you think?”

“Huh?” He blinked at her in confusion. “I... I guess not.”

“Everyone has their flaws; me, you, Lumière, Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts,” she went on. “But real relationships are about overlooking those flaws. We forgive people for having them. It may not always be easy; I know you make me angry when you’re being rude to me. But I don’t _hate_ you because of it.”

The Beast’s ears perked up at that last comment. “I am not being rude!” he thundered. “I’m just—” He stopped himself, counted to ten and ruffled his mane before speaking again. “Belle?”

“Yes, Beast?”

“Remember that book you read to me earlier? About that sorceress who cursed that princess because the king betrayed her?”

“You mean _Maleficent?”_

“Yes.” He nodded. “Do you think it’s possible for people to change like that in real life? Not just to go from good to evil I mean, but to go from bad to good?”

“I believe that anything is possible, Beast. Why do you ask?

He shrugged. “No reason.”

“Luncheon is served, mademoiselle!” Lumière suddenly announced from the door.

Belle turned to where the maître d’ stood and smiled. “Thank you, Lumière,” she replied. “I’ll be down in a moment.” She looked back at the Beast. “Would you like to join me? I’d love to continue this conversation with you.”

The Beast rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “Thanks. But uh, maybe some other time.” He hadn’t eaten with cutlery in almost ten years now and was sure that whatever efforts he made at relearning the habit in front of Belle would end in disaster.

Belle was a little disappointed by the Beast’s deferral, but chose not to press the issue. She was sure that he would dine with her when he was ready. “I understand," she said, standing up and placing the book on the table. "I'll see you tomorrow then.” She made a mental note to ask a servant if there was anything further she could do to cheer up the Beast. She realized that she genuinely wanted to make him happy, now that she knew how lonely and sad he really was. 

Once Belle had left the room, the Beast returned to his armchair, staring at the place where Belle had sat only moments ago.

“How did it go, master?” Lumière asked him curiously.

“She makes me feel all, _funny_ inside,” he confessed. “Like my stomach goes into knots whenever she’s around.”

“Ah, _c’est l’amour_ ,” Lumière replied, waving his candlestick arms flamboyantly. “Wonderful, isn’t it? No doubt the girl is feeling the same way about you.”

“When I look like this?” He snorted. “I doubt it.”

“Oho, you must not give up hope, master! You are making remarkable progress. Keep this up and the spell should break any day now.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it." It was one thing to befriend someone, but another to love them. As much as the Beast had been trying to win Belle’s affections, he was still painfully aware that a beautiful and intelligent girl like her could do so much better than him.

But hope sprang eternal. There was one part of his conversation with Belle today that he couldn’t forget. _“I know you make me angry when you’re being rude to me, but I don’t hate you because of it.”_

Did that mean he was improving? That Belle was starting to see him as something more than the heartless monster who had locked her father away? He had noticed that something had been changing between them for the past few weeks. First, he’d saved her from the wolves. Then she’d brought him back to the castle and tended to his wounds. He’d shown her the library and they’d had a snowball fight in the grounds. It wasn’t exactly like the romantic rendezvouses that Belle had read to him in her fairy tales, but it was _something._ Whatever it was, it made the Beast feel good. And now that Belle was no longer afraid of him, his hope that she would break the spell was beginning to blossom. He was starting to care about her in ways he’d never cared about anyone before.

He looked outside and he didn’t know why, but the winter looked a little less miserable than usual. There was something almost pretty in the way the snow blew past the windows. Soon, spring would be here and he could take Belle out into the grounds to show her the gardens. Maybe by then, he would be human again and be able to kiss her with real human lips. If that happened, he swore he would be the perfect prince, just like Eric and all the rest of those charming princes Belle was so fond of. Not for himself, not for his servants. Just for her.


	4. La laisser partir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did the Beast think about in the crucial moments after he let Belle return to her father? Based off the prompt: "Write a story or scene from Beauty and the Beast based off a song of your choosing." For this fill, I chose to write a short fic based off the cover version of "Let Her Go" by Within Temptation, though the song was originally written and performed by the band Passenger. You can read the lyrics to the song or listen to the cover version [here.](http://www.karaoke-lyrics.net/lyrics/within-temptation/let-her-go-426815)

The Beast stood hunched over the enchanted rose, resting one of his massive paws on top of the bell jar. _Just three petals left,_ he thought. By midnight, they would all be gone and he would be a beast, forever.

If the Beast could look into his future ten years ago and know that he was going to spend the eve of his twenty-first birthday alone and resigned to his cursed state, he would have been devastated. After all, he didn't deserve to be a Beast. It was all that wretched witch's fault. She was the one who'd tricked him that Christmas Eve, disguising herself as an old hag so she could punish him for a crime he hadn’t committed. All his life he’d been surrounded by beauty and opulence, and she’d the audacity to come here, threatening his perfect world with her ugliness. He wasn’t the villain here, she was! He was completely innocent.

But a time would come when he’d realize, no matter how many times he cried out for the enchantress, demanding she take back the curse, she wouldn’t return. A point when after breaking all the mirrors in the castle, after replaying the events of that night repeatedly in his head, remembering all the things his tutors had told him about manners and moral conduct he’d realize – he had been in the wrong. He was a prince. His job was to show compassion to his people, not judge them for their appearances. The enchantress had given him a simple test in human decency that night, and he'd failed it. And so, she’d turned him into what he'd been inside all along: a beast.

Now he stood alone in the West Wing, waiting for midnight like a criminal awaiting his death sentence. But he wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. In a way, he found the permanency of his curse to be more blessing than burden. For one thing, he'd no longer have to attach himself to this notion that he could be human again, _if_ someone could love him. Instead, he’d always be a beast. He could escape into the woods, spend the rest of his life hunting and eating. He didn’t need anything else.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did need something. He could see her now as he closed his eyes: her heart-shaped face, pink lips, brown eyes. Belle.

If there was anything the Prince had learned from the near-decade he’d spent as an animal, it was how much he’d taken for granted as a human. He never knew how much he’d miss the brightness of his castle until he’d stood in the shadows of the West Wing during the winter solstice, watching the light disappear from the horizon. He never knew how much he'd miss the sun of a spring day, until he watched the first snowfall in the forest, wondering when he’d be brave enough to turn his back on the castle and never return. And he never knew how much he’d miss being in a bustling city until he’d been confined to a castle with only his servants – now inanimate objects – for company. Through one careless, wrong decision, he’d traded all that away for a twisted purgatory of a world he’d once taken advantage of. And he had no one to blame, but himself.

But then, Belle had come. And while she hadn't brought back his old life, she’d shown him something new and different. Something the Beast couldn’t explain, but could certainly _feel._ It was there when they read books together, when they danced together, when she smiled or laughed at a joke he told her at dinner. She'd shown him happiness where he'd never known it before, made him want to look forward instead of look back. Of course he knew from the beginning that the chance of her breaking his curse was slim to none. But that still couldn’t stop the things he’d see when he fell asleep: visions where he was with her as a man, happy and in love. A life he could dream about, but would never be his.

Nothing lasted forever, of course. Even now, the Beast thought it amazing that it took ten years for Belle to come here, and less than a minute for her to leave for her father, taking all the Beast’s hopes and dreams with her. But he couldn't regret his decision to free her. The only thing worse than making a selfish mistake was dragging someone else into it. He couldn't do that to Belle. Not anymore. She deserved better.

Still, it didn't make his choice any less painful. Until tonight, he hadn’t even realized how much it would hurt to lose her.

The Beast had never known how heartless he’d been until the enchantress had cursed him. He never knew what it was to yearn to be human, until he’d become a beast. And he never knew how much he loved Belle until tonight, when he finally let her go.


	5. Si tu m'aimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the October 2013 prompt on Bittersweet & Strange: Write a scene or story featuring a good BATB character turning evil.

"Take it with you," said the Beast, gently pressing the mirror back into Belle's hands. "So you'll always have a way to look back. And remember me."  
  
A small smile tugged on Belle's lips in spite of herself. She knew the Beast had truly gone out of his way for her tonight, organizing the dinner and the unforgettable ballroom dance, but this was the biggest surprise she'd received all night. She was free. After months and months of missing and worrying about her father, she was finally going to see him again.  
  
"Thank you for understanding how much he needs me," she told him, at a loss of what else to say.  
  
She turned to leave, and then looked back as she noticed the miserable expression on the Beast's face. Her poor friend. Given his former selfish nature, this must have been a difficult decision for him to make. She laid a hand on his cheek and smiled at him, assuring him that he'd done the right thing. Then, not wanting to waste another second of her time, she hurried out of the West Wing. Her father was sick and needed her help. She had to find him, before it was too late.  
  
Three steps out the door, Belle realized that the journey from the West Wing back to her room would be much faster if she took off her shoes. The fancy high heels Madame de la Grande Bouche had given her may have been appropriate to dine and dance in, but not to run to the other side of the castle in. Quickly, she leaned against the wall and pried the first shoe off her foot, feeling instant relief at the lack of constriction around her toes. At the same time, she noticed that the door to the Beast's room was hanging ajar, and that Cogsworth's voice was coming from the inside. He must have gone to see the Beast just as she was leaving.  
  
"I knew you had it in you," Cogsworth was saying with a chuckle.  
  
"I let her go," the Beast replied morosely.  
  
There was a gasp. "You  _what?_ How could you do that?"  
  
"I had to."  
  
"Yes, but why?"  
  
"Because, I love her."  
  
Belle nearly dropped her second shoe on the floor in shock. Had she heard correctly? The Beast...  _loved_  her? A flood of questions rushed through her mind. Since when? For how long? Why? And did she love him? Her palms began to sweat underneath her silk gloves as she considered her answer. She didn't  _dislike_  him, not as much as she did when she first met... but  _love_ him? That was a different kettle of fish entirely. Belle remembered as a child, she always thought that her true love would be just like the Prince Charmings in her books, refined, chivalrous, willing to go to the ends of the earth for the women they loved. But the Beast wasn't refined or chivalrous... not in a conventional storybook sense, at least. To Belle, the Beast was just... the Beast. He was a good, dear friend but...  
  
The sight of her flustered reflection in the mirror brought Belle back to her senses. Her father needed her. For every minute she lingered here, her Papa was one minute closer to freezing to death. Quickly, she picked up her shoes and fled down the hallway before Cogsworth or the Beast could see her. She'd already learned from her first visit to the West Wing that the Beast liked his privacy. Knowing that, maybe it was best not to let him know she'd overheard him.

* * *

Belle tried with all her might to pry the cellar window open with the stick she'd found, but to no avail. "I have to warn the Beast," she said, turning to her father in despair. "This is all my fault."  
  
"Now now, we'll think of something," her father said, wrapping his arms around her reassuringly.  
  
But her father's encouraging words could barely relieve the unrest in Belle's heart. Yes, she was home and reunited with her Papa, but at what cost? Now a whole mob of villagers were going to kill the Beast, thinking he was a threat to the village when he wasn't! But the only person who could prove his innocence was Belle. And she was as good as useless as long as she remained locked up in this cellar, miles away from the Beast's castle.  
  
_"Because, I love her,"_ the Beast's voice echoed in her head again.   
  
If only she'd confronted him about his feelings when she was outside the West Wing, maybe things would be different now. If only she'd promised him she'd come back when he gave her the mirror, at least he'd take comfort in knowing she didn't send those men to attack him. It was better to say she cared for him enough to see him again, than leave him to die, thinking she didn't care at all.

* * *

It took every ounce of Belle's strength to pull the Beast back on to the balcony. By then, she feared she was too late. She lay a hand on his cheek, and saw with some relief that he was still breathing - albeit slowly. He opened his eyes blearily and looked up at her. 

"You came back," he said in a wheezy voice.  
  
"Of course I came back," she replied, trying her hardest to stay calm despite his condition. "I couldn't let them..." she paused as the Beast let out a shudder of pain. "Oh, this is all my fault. If only I'd gotten here sooner."  
  
"Maybe... it's better this way."  
  
"Don't talk like that!" she reprimanded him. "You'll be all right. We're together now. Everything's going to be fine, you'll see."  
  
Smiling weakly, the Beast lifted his paw to touch her face. "At least I got to see you... one... last... time," he whispered.  
  
His paw felt so warm and comforting against her cheek, Belle couldn't help but shed a tear as she answered his caress. She'd been so overwhelmed by everything that had happened tonight. Now that she was back with her Beast, all she wanted was to disappear, forget all the terrible things she'd seen, go somewhere safe where it was just the two of them and no one else...   
  
But it was not to be. Seconds later, the Beast's paw lowered from her face. Belle looked down to see the Beast's blue eyes roll back into his head. Then, he closed his eyes and lay motionless on the wet stone. Belle clasped her hands to her mouth in disbelief. "No, no! Please! Please! Please don't leave me!" she begged. But the Beast made no sign that he'd heard her. He was gone.  
  
The tears Belle had been trying to restrain now flowed freely from her face. It wasn't fair. The Beast had been through so much pain, so much suffering. All she'd wanted was bring some happiness to his empty life, let him know that he didn't have to be alone. She thought of all the books she'd yet to read with him, all the things she wanted to show him, and now she never would. She was too late. And it was in that horrible, earth shattering moment that  _she knew_  and hated herself for not saying it sooner: "I love you."  
  
It didn't matter that the Beast wasn't a Prince Charming, or that he was an animal and she was a human. To Belle, the Beast was a man. Not a perfect man, but a man who was trying his hardest to be one. That was why she had stayed the night he'd rescued her from those wolves. That was why she befriended him and not Gaston. That was why she'd fallen in love with him.  
  
Upon reaching this revelation, Belle resented herself even more. For if she really loved the Beast, she wouldn't have exposed him to Gaston and the townspeople. She wouldn't have left him alone in the West Wing, thinking she didn't reciprocate his feelings and she'd never come back. And she wouldn't have left him to die here, cold and unwanted. Gaston hadn't killed the Beast, she had. Knowing that, she lay her head against the Beast's motionless chest, crying even harder for everything she'd lost and the despicable monster she'd become.  
  
Then, light rained down from the sky and everything changed.


	6. À qui sait attendre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four times when the Prince waited, and the one time when he was glad he did.

The Prince hated waiting. Waiting for him was a nuisance, a burden that should only be subjected to commoners and those who’d had the woeful misfortune of being born into servitude. But not him. As a member of royal society and the heir to the throne, the Prince was happy to take advantage of everything that his position entailed. And why shouldn’t he? All his life, he’d been raised to _believe_ — no _expect_ — that he should always get what he wanted at a moment’s notice. No request of his majesty could ever be too ridiculous or unreasonable for his subjects to fulfil, and those who challenged that notion would face his wrath. 

So it was only reasonable that he should lose his temper whenever his servants took too long to dress him in the mornings, serve his meals or prepare his carriage for his monthly visits to the local villages. He wanted to fire his staff whenever these mishaps occurred, but alas, although he was a prince, he had no control over who worked in his household. That power remained with his uncle. The same uncle who’d sent him to live in this isolated castle after his parents had died, with only vague promises of when he would return. 

Two years had passed since then. The Prince’s uncle now lived in a castle on the other side of the province, acting as a regent for the prince until he came of age. As far as the Prince and his servants were aware, he was thrilled to take on this role, as long as it meant he could busy himself with political affairs and pretending that his nephew never existed.

* * *

The Beast hated waiting. If the enchantress intended to punish him for his selfishness that winter’s night, she should have killed him on the spot. He would rather _die_ than live like this, trapped in this grotesque form, waiting day and night for his curse to end. But every day for the past several years, it was all he did. He waited in the darkness of the West Wing. He waited behind shredded curtains and half-shattered windows, all for a person who would surely never come. The enchantress certainly hadn't made it any easier. Thanks to her curse, the castle was always dark and ominous and the surrounding forests, gloomy and barren. Even if his rescuer somehow managed to get past the wolves that prowled outside the gates and enter his home unscathed, surely his terrifying appearance would be enough to scare them away. It was time to face the music: the enchantress had set him up for failure. And no one, not even his closest servants, could convince him otherwise.

The only thing stopping him from completely giving up hope was the rose. It was his personal timepiece; a reminder of all he had lost and could still win back, chance permitting. But that was impossible. Why subject himself to such torment when it was so much easier to accept his fate, destroy the rose and end it all? 

Because deep inside, he knew he wasn’t strong enough. Inside, he was still that frightened little boy who hid under his blankets during thunderstorms and cried himself to sleep after his father had passed away. And now, he was the boy who vainly held onto the hope that somehow, someday he could be redeemed. 

* * *

It felt like he was waiting for something, but he didn’t know what. What he did know was that every day, he and the girl were getting closer. She no longer looked at him with fear and resentment, but with warmth and fondness. Her smile brought a joy to his heart that was impossible to describe. More and more he wanted to find ways to bring out that smile, things that would make her happy, make her laugh, even surprise her. Oftentimes he wished that they could be more than captive and prisoner, host and guest, _friends._ But he had to be realistic. As long as he remained a beast, their relationship could never progress.

But he could dream. Dream, wait and hope that one day things would change and she would realize that she cared for him as much as he cared for her. But with his twenty-first birthday fast approaching, he was beginning to doubt that day would ever occur. He suffered in silence as he imagined a life where he was human and no longer had to hide his past from her.

* * *

The Beast was going to die, and soon. But he wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. He’d resigned himself to this truth hours ago, shortly after he’d let Belle return to her father. She’d been the one spark of happiness in his life —  maybe just the one, but it was enough. He could die happy that knowing that he’d performed one act of selflessness by setting her free.  

But now, as he succumbed to his injuries, Belle’s perfect face staring down at him, he wished desperately that fate would wait a bit longer so he could make his last moments with her more meaningful. He wanted to tell her that everything would be fine. That she could have all the books in the library; sell them for money, use them to become a world-famous storyteller. He wanted to tell her that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. That whatever she did with her life, he wanted her to be happy. _That I love her._  

But time was not on his side. Already he could feel his eyelids grow heavy as the last of his strength left him. He was drifting away on a current, ignorant of all thought and feeling and she was far far away from him.

* * *

He knew something was different the moment he pushed himself off the ground. His body felt lighter and his joints were in the wrong places — though curiously, the change did not cause him any pain. It wasn’t until he’d lifted himself to full height, opened his eyes and saw his hands… _hands_ not paws… stretched out in front of him, that he put two and two together.

 _Belle had said it!_ He thought it was impossible, but she had, and now he was alive and he was human…

Heart racing, he turned around with a speed that nearly gave him whiplash, but he barely noticed. All he cared about was the woman standing in front of him, hair soaked from the rain and cheeks glistening with dried tears.

“Belle,” he said in delight, stepping forward and grabbing her hands. “It’s me!”

Belle stepped back and looked at him in uncertainty. The action caused the Prince to mentally kick himself for his impulsiveness. Of course she wouldn’t recognize him! He had never told her who he really was. It was the biggest secret he’d kept from her; not only out of shame for his past, but for fear that telling her would ruin his chance of breaking the spell.

But now as she studied his new form, he realized that it didn’t matter if he’d told her the truth or not. She had seen past his appearance once, and she could do it again. For ten years he’d waited for her to set him free, and she had. So he looked deeply into her eyes, knowing undoubtedly that although she was scared and confused, she would find him once more. He would wait here for her until she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the 100 kudos, guys! I don't know what I've done to receive so much recognition but I really appreciate it. :)


	7. Verum corpus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince experiences some difficulties in adjusting to his new human body.

As he soon came to realize, adjusting to his new human body did not simply happen overnight. There were a lot of habits he had to relearn, a lot of changes he had to make. Getting used to the movements of his new form was one thing. As a Beast he was used to making fast, aggressive gestures that came with having such a huge body, but there was a certain lightness and sensitivity to being human, and he found it odd that it didn't take as much effort to move his arms and legs as it used to, and that it took more time to move across a room than it did before. It wasn't difficult, just strange, like getting a new haircut or breaking into a new pair of boots.

He hadn't told Belle this, but the morning after the enchantment, he'd tried to put his foot down on a lower part of the staircase and ended up falling down a whole flight of steps instead, nearly crashing into a suit of armour as he hit the landing. He deduced that thinking in Beast steps instead of human steps had been the source of his fall but still, he still felt quite stupid over the matter and was glad that no one was there to see him when it happened.

During his first breakfast together with Belle, he'd spent a long time staring at his spoon before she picked up on what was wrong and showed him the correct, _human_ way to hold it, but even then, he dropped it a few times because he wasn't so used to it feeling so heavy in his hand, or putting in his mouth in a way that didn't require him to bend his muzzle all the way over. He got the hang of it eventually, although he made a bit of a mess along the way.

There was the bathroom to relearn (he'd done his business like a Beast for ten years after all), and sleeping on a bed that actually supported all his weight, wearing stockings and boots, having hair that only covered a few parts of his body, even his reflection was something he couldn't make sense of anymore, for even though he wasn't a Beast, he wasn't the spoiled eleven-year-old he had been before he was cursed either. In the end he just gave up trying to make sense of the young man he saw in the mirror everyday, reasoning that Belle was the only one who really knew who he was, and that was good enough for him to be perfectly honest.

On Monday morning, Belle was reading a book to him in the library and only stopped once when she looked up to notice the troubled expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He nervously fumbled with his hands, "I thought this would be so easy," he told her in a tenor voice that didn't really sound like his anymore.

"Well your reading is improving," she pointed out.

"No," he said, "I mean I just feel as if I'm…not _good_ at anything anymore. When I was a Beast I _adapted_ to a lot of the problems I faced from not being a human. I learned to eat, dance, dress and read, even though it was difficult. I thought these things would just carry over when I changed back…but now I feel like I have to learn these things _all over again_. I just keeping on tripping and dropping things, I feel so clumsy, all the time, and I don't mean to be."

Belle smiled and gently put a hand on his shoulder, "But you're adjusting so well," she said, "And think about it; Mrs. Potts and the others haven't used or seen their hands in ten years. They're probably all going through the same changes that you are."

The prince let himself imagine how strange it must be for his servants to be using their hands to work the same apparatus they had been for ten years and thought she had a bit of a point. He ruffled his hair anxiously. "I just think there's something wrong with me," he admitted.

She shifted herself across the carpet to be closer to him and carefully put down her book. "Well I don't think there's anything wrong with you," she said.

She moved her hand to his cheek, looked into his familiar blue eyes, and then kissed him. And for a moment he forgot to think, because this was probably the only thing that made sense, the only thing about being human that really felt _natural._ Gently, he passed his hands across her hair, her neck, realizing without claws she was completely open for him to touch, to feel, without the fear of hurting her. He pulled her closer to him, marvelling again at how well his human body fit against hers and then, feeling a bit more daring, angled his mouth and started kissing her back.

And at some point while they both sat there kissing, he began to think a certain thing that men and women did after marriage, and wondered if she would ever agree to do that with him, maybe when they'd been together a bit longer, when he'd become a bit more adjusted to his new body. He realized there was a whole window of opportunity open to him now that he was what he had wanted to be for her all along.

At last she pulled away from him, taking a few minutes to recompose herself because she hadn't expected to be kissed like _that_ before, "You seem perfectly fine to me," she said.

He smiled and then kissed her again, lightly this time, as a way of showing his gratitude. For he realized that she was the only one who could ever see past his ugly exterior, who had learned to love him, who had broken the spell and had freed him so that he may start a new life together with her, not as a monster, but as an ordinary man.

Adjusting to his new human body did not simply happen overnight, but this was one thing about being human he could most easily see himself getting used to.


	8. Écriture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince picks up a quill for the first time in over ten years.

It was the one thing he liked least about being human again: handwriting.

Even before the spell, it had never been his forte. He'd taken lessons of course but he'd never been a great student. Many of his early memories of learning to write involved him throwing inkwells at the wall and scattering parchment across the floor of his father's study. Sometimes he wondered how his tutors had put up with him as long as they did.

As a Beast, writing for him was out of the question. His paws were too big to hold a quill, let alone write with one. In the end LaPlume and Crane both took it upon themselves to compose letters to the distant kingdoms while he dictated. One thing about being a Beast surrounded by enchanted objects, they were very good at making themselves useful when they needed to be.

But ten years later things were different. The servants weren't objects anymore, and while he knew they would do anything for him the Prince was twenty-one years old now, and had certain responsibilities to take on. There was no escaping it, he had to learn how to write - again.

Thankfully he had an amazing tutor to help him this time. Belle had taught him how to read during those long winter months they'd spent together in the castle and now she was taking it up on herself to teach (or rather, re-teach) him how to write.

Like everything else about her, Belle's handwriting was beautiful and elegant. She used up several sheets of parchment showing him how to write out the capital and lowercase letters all with the warm patience of a school teacher teaching a child their ABCs. But when it came to taking the quill from her, the Prince's handwriting looked like chicken scratch - no worse than chicken scratch, like dark inky blotches. His hand kept on shaking, no matter how hard he tried to copy out her beautiful letters.

"You're being too hard on yourself," she told him over and over.

"Easy for you to say," he replied. She wasn't the one entertaining visitors in a week's time expecting a speech explaining his absence from the throne. If he couldn't manage to write out a single word legibly, how on earth could he possibly manage all this? Things he'd never expected to weigh him down so much two weeks ago as a beast suddenly became apparent, and sometimes all he needed the comfort of Belle's hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his cheek to remember that what he was working for was better than what he had left behind.

A few days soon became a week. Belle suggested they go for a walk in the grounds to enjoy the spring weather, but the Prince was so determined to practice his calligraphy, he wouldn't listen. Instead they grew into a regular routine where she would sit across from him at the desk reading from her book while he wrote, Belle occasional stopping to see if he'd made any progress. On Tuesday she found herself squinting her eyes heavily as she read the lines he had tried to copy out from his history textbook.

"The treaty of, of, of..."

"Oh, just forget it!" he growled as he crumpled up the sheet and tossed it behind the desk. "It's hopeless."

"It's not hopeless. Why do you keep saying that?" she said. "Here, let's try something else." She shifted a few pieces of parchment on the table, looking for a blank page they could start over on when a strange design on one of the rolls caught her eye. "What's that?" she asked him.

"Oh," the Prince looked embarrassed. "It's a bird."

"A bird?" Belle repeated. "Why were you drawing a bird?"

"I get bored when Cogsworth tutors me sometimes," he explained, "I saw a bird on the window and started drawing it."

Belle gave the Prince a reprimanding look and then studied the detail of the wings and the head. It wasn't an amazing drawing by any means, but it was pretty impressive for what it was worth. "This is actually pretty good," she told him. "Draw something else for me."

The Prince was confused by her request, but complied, drawing a branch underneath the bird to look like he was perched there.

"You drew that with your left hand?" she said.

The Prince looked up, realizing that the hand he was holding his quill in now was not the same quill he had been writing with a moment before. "I guess I did," he said in surprise.

Belle scratched the bottom of her chin thoughtfully. "I have an idea," she said. "Can you pass me the quill for a moment?"

"Of course."

Belle took the quill from him and wrote the word 'bird' underneath the drawing.

"Write that for me," she told him.

The Prince looked at her and obeyed, copying out the word with his right hand. It looked terrible, but for once Belle did not correct him.

"Now write it with your other hand," she instructed.

Again, he switched hands and wrote out the word again. The result was surprising. Belle's handwriting still looked a lot nicer than his that was for sure, but the word was actually legible this time!

"Belle," he said in disbelief. "Look!"

Belle smiled. "Did your old tutor ever make you try writing with your left hand?"

"No. It was always the right hand."

"Well, I can't say for certain, but I think you might be left-handed."

"Left-handed?" he repeated. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Of course not!" she shook her head. "Why Papa is left-handed, he's been one all his life."

"Oh," he said. "Well maybe that's why...,"

"Why what?"

"Why I was such a bad student when I was younger." He paused. "Could you pass me another piece of parchment?"

"Sure."

He dipped his quill in the inkwell and wrote out a sentence on the new sheet, noticing that his hand wasn't shaking anymore. In fact it was a lot easier for him to push down on the paper now that he was using his left hand. When he'd used his right hand he would often break the nib of the quill from pressing down too hard, but now the pressure was just right, and felt practically effortless.

"Two households, both alike in dignity in fair Verona where we lay our scene," Belle read out after him. "That's from Romeo and Juliet. You memorized that?"

"How can I forget it? It was the first thing I ever read to you."

Belle smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "You're sweet."

The Prince glowed at her compliment. "I think I would like to go outside now," he said as he put down the quill.

Belle nodded. "I think I would like that too."

As he closed the door behind them the Prince felt relieved that he had been able to master at least one thing since becoming human again. Maybe this would explain why he was having so much trouble holding his cutlery properly, or why he always preferred to hammer with his left hand when he was doing repairs on the roof as a Beast.

But on the other hand, he realized this also meant he might have to sit next to Belle's father tonight at dinner. He was the only other other left-handed person in the castle after all.

Maurice. They hadn't exactly made up about the dungeon incident yet. This was going to be an awkward night for both of them.


	9. Hier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle leaves the castle after the spell breaks and the prince cuts his hair short to mourn her departure. Based on the prompt: "Write a story or scene set after Beauty and the Beast about the prince doing something he couldn't do as a beast."

His long hair was the first thing to go, once it was clear that she wasn't returning to the castle. She hadn't explained why, only that "things don't feel right here anymore" and she needed "some time alone to think about what I really want for my future." The prince hadn't told the servants this detail, of course. He just told them that he was cutting his hair as a precaution. He'd heard that people with long hair made an easier target for head lice, and, because he didn't want to worry about dealing with parasites now that he was human again, wanted to cut it all off before it was too late.

Only Lumiere, Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts knew the real reason why their master insisted on cutting his hair short after Belle left: he didn't know how else to deal with her departure. For Belle had gone so suddenly, and everywhere he went he still saw traces of her; in the pile of books she'd left in the library, the dresses that still hung in her wardrobe, and – though he would never admit it aloud – in his hair. For his hair was the first thing Belle had touched when he'd transformed into a man again, and it was his hair that she used to love running her fingers through whenever they stole kisses in the library or in the grounds. Now that she was gone, his hair had become for him what his name had been for the past ten years: a painful reminder of a life that no longer existed. A life he no longer wished to remember.

It was shocking at first for the servants to see their master's new haircut. Even before the spell, his hair was no shorter than his shoulders. Now it was tapered short to the sides of his head and only extended half an inch past his earlobes. Not that the master cared what his servants thought about him – they'd seen him when he'd looked much worse. He didn't think that his short hair was so bad. It was liberating, in a way. For one thing, he no longer had to spend a painstaking amount of time washing and combing it to impress a girl he'd known for less than a year. His head felt lighter than it had in years and whenever he went out, he would wear a wig, similar to the ones the nobles wore in court. And, at the end of the day, there was something satisfying about looking in his mirror and knowing that he no longer resembled the man with the thick mane who worshiped the ground that Belle walked on. That was the old prince, this was the new one. And ultimately, telling himself this was easier than confronting the questions he would never be able to answer, like why, despite everything, he couldn't make Belle happy and why Belle had left him when he'd needed her the most.

It was a hot summer day in July, a year to the day Belle had left the castle. The prince was in his bureau replying to a letter to his uncle about seeing him in Nantes before his voyage to the Caribbean in the fall. France was having trouble with one of their cotton plantations in Martinique, and the prince, despite his reservations about going to an island full of slaves, had told his uncle that he wanted to help. He was tired of being in the castle all the time, and if visiting the nearby towns and cities was no longer exciting to him, maybe he needed to go to a different place entirely.

"Master?" Cogsworth called out from the doorway. "There's...erm, someone here to see you."

"Can't you deal with them, Cogsworth?" the prince replied, not looking up from his letter. "I'm a little busy at the moment."  


"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid she's insisting, master. She requested an audience with you specifically."

The prince stopped writing and sighed. "Very well. But tell her to be quick. I have a lot of things to get done today." The last time he'd rejected a woman from entering his castle she'd turned him into a beast. The prince may not be in the best mood right now, but he knew better than to make that mistake again.

It was only after Cogsworth had left to get his visitor that the prince realized he'd left his wig upstairs. He thought about calling on a servant to get it for him, but then reasoned it was so hot in his bureau, his visitor would understand if he didn't look his best at the moment.

A minute later, he regretted his decision. Cogsworth returned with the guest and the prince's heart jumped into his stomach. It was Belle. Belle, and she looked just as he remembered her, with her ponytail and modest pinafore dress.  


He didn't know why she was here, or what she wanted from him. All he knew was that in that moment, he could have shaved his hair as bald as a baby's, or let it grow all the way to his ankles and he would still be the exact same man she'd known him as every time he saw her face. He was still her beast, and he was still hopelessly in love with her.


	10. Rien ne se ressemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince thinks about the challenges of parenthood, following an argument with his six-year-old son. Based on the prompt: "Write a scene or one-shot that shows a BATB character as a parent."

It was an accident, the first time he yelled at his son. Arthur had come into his bureau to show him a bird feather he found outside with Chip. At the same time, Cogsworth came to announce an urgent taxing matter with the Duc de Paquet, who was waiting for the prince in the atrium. Remembering that the duke was not a patient man, the prince told his son to wait in the bureau while he went to talk with their unpleasant visitor. Fifteen minutes later, he returned to find a disaster. Arthur had scribbled all over his unfinished trading agreement with the French East India Company. The  _same_  agreement he'd spent nearly a week putting together with Cogsworth and his uncle. Needless to say, he was positively furious. The old beast came out in him, and he snapped.

"Do you realize what you've done? You're six years old now! How many times do I have to tell you not to touch anything?"

These words, along with several other angry outbursts sent Arthur in tears to his room. Belle, who had arrived in time to see the aftermath of the argument, gave her husband a reprimanding look before handing Catherine to him and following their son upstairs. As their mother, Belle always took time to talk to her children when they were upset. The servants often said that if the master was the leader of the province, his wife was the glue that held their family and household together. Now she'd made it clear that her husband was in the doghouse.

It was unsurprising to say that the prince's outburst with his son put a heavy damper on his mood for the rest of the evening. After taking dinner alone in his office he went down to the parlor, reading over a letter from the prince of Belgium as a way of avoiding the scolding he'd receive from his wife when he went to bed. Even then, he could barely focus on the foreign aristocrat's words. His thoughts kept drifting back to the sight of his son's tear-stained face as he ran away from him.

If there was anything the prince could say about the eight years he'd been a father, it was that it wasn't easy. But then again, nothing about his life after the curse had exactly been a walk in the park. While Belle had improved his manners immensely, the prince's old temper still had ways of coming back. When he found out Belle was pregnant not even a year after their marriage he had every reason to believe he would be the worst father in existence. He barely remembered what his own father was like to know how to behave in front of a child. With his raging temper, he was sure that any offspring of his would hate him, fear him – or both.

But then Vincent was born, and he was practically an angel. By the age of five he could speak perfectly fluent French and English and read entire storybooks by himself. He was kind and helpful, to both his parents and the servants. Earlier that year he'd even suggested that they open a soup kitchen in the local village so the poor could have a place to eat and warm themselves on Christmas. The prince swore that with the ideas running through his boy's eight-year-old head, he could hand the kingdom to him tomorrow and he'd make it the next best thing since Constantinople. He was the complete opposite of the prince he'd been at his age, which he considered a very big blessing indeed.

But Vincent's younger brother, Arthur was a different story. While Vincent had rarely cried as an infant, Arthur cried constantly. Belle and her husband spent so many hours helping him sleep that when they found out they were expecting again four years later the prince had to fight with Belle to put the new baby in a separate room. As much as he loved his children, he could not sleep with crying babies in the West Wing anymore on top of the demanding hours he spent maintaining the kingdom. In many ways, he missed the days when his schedule consisted of morning walks with Belle and reading books with her in the library. He knew Belle missed those days too, but for slightly different reasons.

And while he assumed that Arthur would settle down by the time he became a toddler, instead he became more restless.

"Why?" Arthur asked when his father told to him that it was time for bed.

"Why?" Arthur asked when his father told him to say grace at the dinner table.

"Why?" he asked when his father told him to thank Maurice for the rocking horse he'd made for him and his brother at his workshop.

Arthur always put his father's temper to the limit with his persistent questioning. Sometimes the prince had to think hard to remember that he'd acted the same way when he was his age.

* * *

 "Papa?"

The prince opened his eyes to a dimly lit room. He must have fallen asleep and let the fire die out in the fireplace…again. He rubbed his sore neck and turned around to see a pair of blue eyes peering at him from behind the parlor doorway.

"Arthur?" he said. "What are you still doing up?"

"I wanted to say sorry for ruining your paper, papa," Arthur replied, fidgeting nervously with his housecoat as he spoke. "Are you going to ground me?"

The expression on his face was so pitiful that even the meanest creature in the world would not be able to look at him without feeling sympathy for him. "Arthur,  _viens ici."_

Arthur hesitated. He was afraid that if he entered the room, his father would start yelling at him again. But then he remembered what his mother had told him about being a "big boy" and knew he had to be brave, no matter what. He walked around the armchair so he was standing face to face with his father.

"I'm not going to ground you, Arthur," his father said to him. "You just need to understand that what you did today was very inconsiderate. And do you know why?"

"Because I touched your things without permission," his son replied, staring at his feet.

"Yes you did. Very important things. That trading agreement was going to help a lot of citizens who don't have warm clothes or medicine for the winter. You also hurt my feelings by lying to me when I asked you to tell me about what you did to the paper. But…," he paused. "Do you know who else made a mistake today?"

"Who?" Arthur asked, looking up at him curiously.

"Me."

"You?" His son was surprised. "But you're a grown-up! I thought that grown-ups never make mistakes."

"Well, that's not completely true," said the prince. "I lost my temper and hurt my son's feelings. That was a mistake."

"I didn't mean to make you angry, papa," Arthur explained. "I'm just not good at being patient like Vince. Maybe I'm...a bad prince."

"You can definitely be a little impatient sometimes,  _petit,_  but I wouldn't call you a bad prince."

"What can be worse than me?" Arthur asked, unsure if he could believe him or not.

"Well," the prince paused. He hadn't told his children about the Beast yet. Especially when they were toddlers, admitting that he had imprisoned their mother and grandfather in the castle was not exactly his idea of a bedtime story. But now that they were older he knew he couldn't put the truth off for much longer. He would tell them soon, he just needed time to figure out how to  _explain_  it first. "When I was a little bit older than your brother, I knew a boy who never listened to anyone," he said instead. "He had everything he wanted, but he kept on asking for more, never thanking the people who served him. He was spoiled, selfish and unkind. And then one day, he made a terrible mistake, and he was punished him for it."

"What does 'punished' mean?" Arthur asked.

"It means someone did something bad to him, because he did something wrong. Something against the rules."

"Oh," his son replied. "So like when Zeus punished Prometheus for giving man fire in that book mama read to us because he wasn't supposed to?"

The prince thought back to the book of Greek myths Belle had read to Arthur and Vincent before bedtime the other day and nodded. "Yes, Arthur. Prometheus is a very good example."

Arthur smiled, pleased with himself for connecting his father's story to a story he recognized. "Well did the boy feel bad after?" he continued curiously.

"He did," the prince nodded. "He felt very bad. And angry and sad too. That is, until...he met someone who taught him that he had to learn from his mistakes if he wanted to move on from them. So he did. He started acting nicer, being more mindful of those around him. So the moral of the story is: It's one thing to make a mistake, but even worse to keep on making that mistake, and not doing anything to improve yourself after. Do you understand, Arthur?"

"I do now," Arthur nodded. If the person in his father's story could learn from his mistakes, then so could he. "Papa?"

"Oui, _mon trognon?"_

"Do I _really_ have to dance with a girl at the ball next week?"

The question caught the prince off-guard. He began to laugh in spite of himself. "Not if you don't want to," he smiled. "I wasn't very fond of dancing either when I was your age. Just stay close to Chip or your mother. And remember to always be on your best behavior. We don't want another situation with Sultan jumping on poor Noëlle again, right?"

"She sounds like a toad when she sings," Arthur said, making a face at the memory. But his father could see a small smile on his son's face as well. He knew that their argument from earlier today had disappeared from his mind.

* * *

Shortly after this conversation, the prince walked Arthur back to his room and tucked him into bed for the night.

"Papa, wait!" his son said before he blew out the candle. He reached out from underneath his pillow and pulled out a large brown feather.

"What's this?" his father asked curiously.

"It's the feather I wanted to show you," he replied. "Chip and I found out from a book in the library that it's from the  _aquila_  chrys- _chrysaetos,_ the golden eagle. I was going to give it to the twins, but then I changed my mind. I want you to have it."

His father smiled as he accepted the gift. "Thank you, Arthur. I'll be sure to put this in a safe place."

As he closed the door behind him, the prince reminded himself again that Arthur was not an extension of him. But he still wanted the best for his him, and hoped that he would not become the spoiled and selfish prince he'd been so long ago. He couldn't help but be protective of him for that reason. The prince was not a perfect man, but for his children he would try to be the best father possible.

 


	11. Unique en son genre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It had been over twenty years, but she still remembered what it was like. To be different. To not fit into what society expected of her. Now it seemed that her daughter was bound to the same fate."

The ball seemed to go on forever. Clarisse was busily chatting away in a corner of the ballroom with several young aristocratic boys — or as her sister liked to call them "eligible suitors" — wrapped around her finger, as per usual. Meanwhile, Catherine stood near the refreshment table, watching the night's spectacle unfold with mild boredom and impatience. It was incredible how she could be identical to her sister Clarisse in age and likeness, but have nothing on her in terms of her perkiness and charisma. She would much rather curl up in the library with a good book than spend the night exchanging pleasantries with aristocrats she'd likely never see again. But as the daughter of a reputable prince and princess of France, she supposed it was only right to make a good impression to the courts. Especially now that she and Clarisse were almost of age, and therefore, "next to be married," according to what their great-uncle had told them, anyway.  
  
Catherine was interrupted from her musings as she noticed a boy, not much older than herself, disperse from the crowd. While not explicitly handsome, he had a certain charm about him that made him worthy of a second glance. He was tall and broad shouldered, with short chocolate-brown hair parted neatly to both sides of his head. His grey eyes were like two pieces of steel, and he was wearing a dark blue suit which contrasted nicely with his white cravat and waistcoat. And... he was coming towards her! She straightened her back nervously, unsure of how to respond.  
  
"Princess Clarisse, I assume?" he said in a refined tone that bordered on aristocratic pretentiousness.  
  
"Catherine, actually," she corrected impulsively. "Clarisse is my twin sister."  
  
"Oh. Well then, my apologies, Princess Catherine," the boy replied with a bow. "I am Gabriel, Comte de Montdidier. I'd heard that his majesty's daughters were beautiful, but I don't think any of their descriptions did them justice."  
  
Catherine knew it was improper, but she couldn't help but laugh. The way men threw shallow compliments at women, as though that were the only way to talk to them! The Catherine of four years ago would have swooned at Gabriel's words, but she'd grown wiser since then, and knew better. Tucking a lock of her red hair behind her ear, she asked: "Is appearance all you seek when starting a conversation with the fairer sex, Gabriel, Comte de Montdidier?"  
  
"Oh." The Comte's face turned a dull shade of pink. "No, of course not, Princess. Forgive my ignorance. I was only hoping to gain your acquaintance so I could… invite you to dance?"  
  
_Dance?_ Catherine had never been asked to dance by someone outside her family before. A moment of indecisiveness gripped at her as she fidgeted with her gloved hands. She looked to her parents, who stood at the opposite end of the ballroom, watching. Her father seemed nervous. Her mother nodded slowly.  
  
Taking a deep breath, the princess turned back to her new acquaintance. "Very well then, Gabriel de Montdidier. I accept your invitation."  
  
Catherine had never ventured through the ballroom with a boy her age before. She was unsurprised, therefore, to see several pairs of eyes on her as she and Gabriel joined the dance floor for the next number. Had Princess Catherine, the eldest daughter of the prince and princess of Touraine, finally found someone  _worthy_ enough to be her partner? Clarisse turned away from her male audience, a grin on her face as she watched her sister take Gabriel's hand. Clément, the eldest son of Lumière and Babette, winked at Catherine in a gesture of good luck. Feeling her face flush in embarrassment, Catherine turned back to face Gabriel. He at least, had remained oblivious to the whole ordeal.  
  
"Do you enjoy dancing, Princess?" he asked as Maestro Fife cued the next piece; a stately waltz in triple time.  
  
"I don't mind it," she replied. "Though I do find it a bit stuffy in here."  
  
"You do?" The Comte looked surprised. "Well then, perhaps we should go outside!"  
  
"Oh no!" Going outside with a boy could lead to some other implications, ones she wasn't ready to face just yet. "I mean… thank you for the offer, but that won't be necessary."  
  
"In any case, I much prefer it in here," he continued. "There's so much to see. And that chandelier is  _exquisite."_  
  
"It  _is_ a nice chandelier," Catherine agreed placidly. Good grief, they weren't going to spend the whole night paying compliments to the ballroom, were they?  
  
Sensing her restlessness, the Comte hastily changed the subject. "You must be wondering why I approached you so suddenly to ask for a dance," he said. "Truth be told, I was curious. As I'm sure you know, there's a lot of mystery around your family's past. Particularly around your parents."  
  
Catherine's brown eyes narrowed. So _this_ was why he was so eager to dance with her. And she thought he was being a gentleman! "What makes you think I know everything about my parents?" she answered coolly. "I wasn't even a baby when they first met."  
  
"You aren't even a little bit curious about their background?" he prompted. "They are your parents, after all."  
  
"My parents tell me what they choose to tell me, Comte de Montdidier. I respect their privacy."  _And so should you._  
  
"But what about your father?" Gabriel continued, as though he hadn't heard her. "Surely he would have told you why he left the kingdom for ten years."  
  
"Simple. My great-uncle Christophe sent him to the colonies when he was a boy," Catherine replied. Of course that wasn't the real story, but there was no way she was telling him the truth. Her parents would kill her if she did. "He believed that the time overseas would humble him, and help him become a better ruler."  
  
"And your mother?"  
  
"My father married her in repayment for her services to him. He saw that she was educated and believed she'd be an important asset to the kingdom."  
  
"I see." The Comte lowered his eyes. He seemed disappointed, and Catherine could understand why. After all the stories he'd heard, he probably hadn't expected her family to be so plain and ordinary.  
  
"You know, I've heard a lot of rumours tonight," he went on. "And maybe they're just rumours… but they say that a  _beast_ once inhabited this castle _._  What do you say to that?"  
  
"I say that I'm not surprised," Catherine replied unperturbedly. "The Beast was a superstition great-uncle Christophe created to discourage peasants from breaking into the estate. He thought that if they discovered the place was deserted, they would try to steal from it."  
  
"Sounds like a pretty big superstition," Gabriel remarked.  
  
"Well, most superstitions do have a way of spinning out of control." She smiled. "What about you, Gabriel de Montdidier? What brings you to our castle? Surely you didn't come here to pick apart my family's history all night."  
  
"I'm actually here with my father," he explained. "He seemed to think it prudent I make your acquaintance so I could seek out a suitable partner for—"  
  
"—marriage?"  
  
"Yes. I mean, um, no!" His eyes widened in horror. "What I mean is… I don't plan to marry someone right this minute! But in time, yes. Haven't you considered the same thing? You're nearly of age, aren't you?"  
  
It was Catherine's turn to look horrified. "I will marry when I'm  _ready,_ Comte de Montdidier," she said sternly. "You assume far too much!"  
  
"Of course, Princess." He averted his gaze, realizing he'd crossed a line. "Forgive my forwardness."  
  
After that, the couple fell into a long, though not completely awkward silence. Gabriel was thinking about how badly he'd misjudged Princess Catherine. He thought she'd be a perfect ray of sunshine, just like her twin sister, Clarisse. Her sharp mind and quick tongue were not at all what he expected. Meanwhile, Catherine was thinking about how it was lucky she hadn't stepped on the Comte's feet yet.  
  
"It must be strange to grow up with someone whose face is identical to yours," Gabriel said as the waltz reached its final coda. "Not to mention the confusion."  
  
Catherine shrugged. "You get used to it. After all these years, seeing my twin sister is no different from seeing any of my other siblings."  
  
"So how should I recognize  _you,_  the next time we meet?"  
  
The princess paused. She hadn't expected him to ask that question. Most people were content to see her and Clarisse as a single entity instead of two separate people. She'd always hated that. But this… this was a new and refreshing change. "Clarisse always wears pink," she said after a moment's reflection. "It's always been  _her_ colour, ever since we were infants. But you'd never catch me alive in that colour. I despise it."  
  
The Comte laughed. "Well then, I'll be sure to look for the one who's not wearing pink the next time we cross paths. It was a pleasure to meet you, Princess Catherine."  
  
"Likewise, Gabriel, Comte de Montdidier."  
  
He kissed her on the hand, then disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

"So, how'd it go?"  
  
"How'd what go?" Catherine asked. After her dance with Gabriel, she'd gone over to stand with her parents. She wasn't sure she was ready to dance with another nobleman, even though she knew that many of them wanted to dance with  _her_  by now.  
  
"Dancing with the young man over there," her mother continued cheerfully. "Was it fun?"  
  
She shrugged. "It was… all right. The Comte asked a lot of questions. But he wasn't unpleasant."  
  
"I just can't believe it," the Prince said, gazing at his daughter tearfully. "My little Catou's growing up so fast. It seems like only yesterday you were just a tiny thing on my arm. Now you're a young lady, dancing and chatting with handsome young noblemen. Next thing you know, you'll be getting married and moving out, just like your brothers!"  
  
"Oh  _please,_  Papa. There's no need to get all mushy on me," Catherine replied, rolling her eyes. "I'm not  _that_  old, really. And I'm not ready to get married just yet."  
  
"Of course not, sweetie," her mother said, putting her hand on her shoulder. "Your father's just saying that because he's  _proud_  of you! This ball is for you to have to fun, first and foremost. Suitors and courting… all that will come later."  
  
"You know," Catherine confessed as she looked back over the crowd at her sister, "sometimes I wonder if you ever wish I could be more like Clarisse."  
  
"Why do you say that, Cath?" her father asked in concern.  
  
"Well, she's always been so cheerful and good at talking to people. She breezes through all that princess protocol like it's second nature to her. Not like me. I can barely manage to sit through a banquet most of the time."  
  
Belle pursed her lips together in sympathy. It had been over twenty years, but she still remembered what it was like to be different. To not fit into what society expected of her. Now it seemed that Catherine was bound to the same fate. But she wasn't disappointed. On the contrary, she was proud.   
  
"You are _not_ your sister, Catherine," she said firmly. "We knew since the day you were born that you were two different people."  
  
"But suppose Clarisse gets married before me —"  
  
"—So what if she does? That's her decision, not yours! Whether you find a man who sweeps you off your feet in five years or ten, or choose not to marry at all, we'll  _always_  love you. No matter what."  
  
She smiled at her, and Catherine couldn't help smiling back, albeit hesitantly. It was comforting to know that her parents would always see her for who she was, even when no one else would.  
  
"Thank you for always being there, Maman and Papa," she said. This time, she actually meant it.


	12. La dernière danse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death waits for no one, not even the couple as old as time. But when an elderly Prince discovers a journal among his late wife's possessions, he realizes that their story is not quite over yet. For the January 2014 prompt: "Write a story or scene that focuses on a new beginning."

He had always thought, when the time came, that he'd be the one to go before her. She'd always been so headstrong and brave, and he knew that no matter the circumstances, he could rest easy, knowing she would be able to go on without him.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans for them. At the end of January, at the golden age of seventy-eight, she passed away in her sleep, leaving him alone, though not quite alone as he was before, to grieve for their sixty years of life together. They buried her out in the castle grounds, near a cherry tree she used to love to read under in the spring, surrounded by her family, servants and loved ones. On her casket, he placed a bouquet of red roses; a symbol of his love for her, and all she had given him.

And then he retired to his old castle to grieve for the rest of winter.

* * *

It was nearly a month after the funeral before he could brave himself to enter the room she'd stayed in in her final days. His servants had offered many times to clear it themselves, but there were ancient relics in there, relics he couldn't trust their inexperienced hands to move without breaking. His wife would be rolling in her grave to know her favourite books had been haphazardly stuffed on the library shelves, uncategorized and unalphabetized. At the very least, he could promise her he'd put them away properly.

So on one sunny Monday morning, he pushed open her door with his cane, walking past the already-made bed to the stack of books under the windowsill. He picked them up one at a time: _Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, King Arthur._  His eyes began to tear up when he found  _Romeo and Juliet_ stacked between  _Metamorphoses_  and  _The Odyssey._ Just a month earlier, he'd tried reading the first act to her, only to look up and see her normally radiant face devoid of any emotion. She was in the terminal stages of her illness then, and the doctor had told him that it was likely she was no longer aware of her surroundings. After that, reading aloud to her became too painful, and the Prince put down her books, for good.

But as time passed, the pain of losing his wife became easier to bear. The more books he moved back to the library, the more he felt as though a heavy burden was being lifted from his shoulders. These stories had belonged to his mother before Belle, and they would belong to someone after her. This was what she would want. This would make her happy.

But nothing could prepare him for what he found on the last day of going through the book pile. There, among the lot, was a blue book with a rose engraved on the front cover. It had no title, and he was sure he'd never seen it in the library before.

Curiously, he opened it and nearly went into cardiac arrest. The book was full of writings, all in his wife's hand. It was as though her voice was speaking to him from the grave as he turned the pages; every thought, every detail of her life documented since the beginning of her illness…

And it was far too much for him to bear. As quickly as he was able, he lit a fire in the fireplace and held the book over the flames. He couldn't read this. Not when the memory of his wife was still so close to him. She'd been gone for a month now. How could she do this to him?

It was his love for her that stayed his hand. Belle wouldn't want this. She had left this book for him for a reason. As painful as it was, he could not dishonour her memory by throwing it away. So he took it away from the fireplace and carried it back to the library with her remaining tomes.

* * *

The seasons passed. A new queen was crowned in England. Spain and France joined together in war. A man in Paris invented a new way of making pictures that would have turned the Prince's old father-in-law green with envy. And all the while, the Prince thought only of his wife. He'd always considered Belle to be a woman ahead of her time, a better fit for this changing world than he was. Even in her old age, he was sure she would find more meaning in it than he ever would.

But at least he wasn't alone. With six children, twenty-five grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren with an eighth on the way, there was a never-ending line of family members always dropping by to visit him, spoiling him with care packages he didn't particularly need. He could see echoes of his own life in them, his grandson's nervous expression on his wedding day, the glow on his granddaughter's face as she announced her first pregnancy. He would spend his days among them, while at night he contemplated the deeper mysteries of death, knowing his time would soon be at hand.

The third summer after Belle's passing, the Prince's granddaughter, Margot, deciding her grandfather needed to stop being "a sad recluse wasting your life away in that old castle," sent her nine-year-old son Xavier and three-year-old daughter Philomène to stay with him for the month.

It was an interesting visit, to say the least. Xavier and Philomène lived in the city, and the idea of exploring the forest around their great-grandfather's castle was a completely foreign concept to them. In the end, the Prince was only half-successful in convincing them of the merits of fresh air, lamenting that Belle would have done a much better job winning their favour than he would.

By the second week however, a fierce thunderstorm had put all his great-grandchildren's outdoor adventures on hold. During this time, the Prince went into the library to find Xavier pulling several books off the shelves. Among them was Belle's journal.

"Xavier!" he exclaimed in a panic. "What are you doing?"

Xavier looked back at him, startled. "What? I'm just trying to find a book to read. It's raining outside."

"I understand that," his great-grandfather replied, calming down slightly. "But you can't be reading the books from  _that_  section! Especially not this one." He pointed to the blue journal.

"Sorry,  _arrière-grand-père,"_  Xavier apologized. "What is that anyway?"

"It was a book your great-grandmother wrote."

"Ohhh." Xavier looked at it in interest. "Have you read it?"

"No, I haven't."

He frowned. "Poor great-grandmother. She must be really disappointed."

"Why would she be disappointed?"

"Well, she worked so hard to write a book and you're not even going to read it," he explained. "You might as well rip up the pages and use it to wipe your nose with!"

"I'm not going to wipe my nose with it!" the Prince retorted. But he supposed his great-grandson had a point. He was a perceptive kid, just like his grandfather. Which was a good reason as ever for him  _not_ to be touching Belle's old things. "Listen, Xavier," he said. "I'll read your great-grandmother's book. But in return, you can only take out books from  _those_ shelves," he gestured to the left where the adventure section was. "You can even take some home with you if you like."

"Really?" His great-grandson beamed. "Thanks!"

As he went to look through the books, the Prince picked up Belle's journal and shook his head incredulously.

_Kids these days. When did they get so clever?_

* * *

The following evening, the Prince sat in his favourite armchair with his wife's book in hand. He was hesitant to open it at first, afraid her handwriting would trigger another panic attack, but surprisingly, it didn't. It had been three years now, so he supposed the pain of her death was easier to bear this time.

Soon, the Prince found himself immersed in the world of Belle's early childhood. He read about the city she'd been born in, about her mother who loved to read and her father who loved to invent. He read about how her mother had died during her second pregnancy, and how Belle had spent the next years of her life moving from town to town with her Papa, her mother's books being her only comfort in a world that was changing too quickly for her to keep up.

When it was finally time for Xavier and Philomène to return home, the Prince felt sad, but also excited to read more stories from his wife's book. Each night he would retire to his armchair and pore over another passage. He learned more about the poor provincial village Belle had stayed in before Maurice went missing, and her terrifying first encounter with the Beast. Her words grew increasingly more spiteful as she expressed her unhappiness at becoming a prisoner in exchange for her father's freedom. But then she talked about befriending the Beast after he saved her life, and the Prince knew, undoubtedly that what they'd shared that winter was real. He felt himself smiling as she expressed her joy at reuniting with him after nearly losing him to Gaston's blade, their first year together after the curse and finally, the six beautiful children they'd raised together.

And then, he came to the last page. This time, it wasn't a story, but a letter:

_My dearest husband,_

_I expect that this message will find you in great pain, but do not weep for me, for I am with the Lord now and am at peace._

_I know I have said this many times before, but I will say it once again: meeting you was the greatest gift I could ever receive in this life. It is easy to see the ways my love changed you, but you should not believe, not even for a second, that yours changed me any less. Without you, I would never feel comfortable with myself or come to love the world for what it is. Even when we had our disagreements, there was never a time when they ever stopped me from loving you. Through you, I learned to live, and for that, I am forever grateful._

_Although I have stopped writing, that does not mean this story is over. As you know, it takes two to tell a love story. So my wish for you is that you fill this book with your own memories, so our tale can become two parts of a whole._

_Until we meet again,_  
_Belle_

The tears fell from the Prince's face all at once. Suddenly, he felt closer to his wife than he had in years. Even when she was dying she still thought of him of him, still loved him enough to leave a small piece of herself behind for him. All she asked was that he finish the journal for her.

So he would.

Once a week, from summer to winter, the Prince would add another memory to Belle's blue book. He wrote about his mother's untimely death and his father's descent into alcoholism, which ended his life four years later. He wrote about the years he'd spent alone in his castle as an orphaned Prince, spoiled, selfish and unable to understand why he was so unhappy. He almost wanted to put down his pen when it came to writing about the Enchantress, but Belle's memory kept him strong. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel her hand on his shoulder as he detailed his experiences as a Beast, slipping further away from humanity until love was all but a lost illusion.

But then he came to the better moments in his life. Meeting Belle. The feeling of butterflies in his stomach as he watched her walk Philippe out in the snow. The worst day of his life, when Belle left him forever. He wrote about closing his eyes for what he believed would be the last time as he bled out in the balcony, only to wake and discover he was alive and human. He wrote about marrying Belle, enjoying the simple pleasures of life with her, learning he was going to be a father...

By January, the Prince had no more words to write. With tremendous relief and weariness, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

_In the darkness and pouring rain, she called out to him. He turned around, and there she was, standing on the balcony, just as young and beautiful as the day he'd first met her. She extended her hand to him, and like a dog eager to reunite with his master, he climbed up the roof to meet her. His body was old and feeble, and slipped many times over the wet shingles, but as he drew closer, the years slipped away and the ascent became quick and easy._

_When he finally reached her, his hand was no longer wrinkled and covered with age spots, but as smooth and whole as when he'd first become human again._

_"You came back," he said joyously, and the voice he spoke with was of a man at least sixty years younger than himself._

_Belle smiled a smile he both loved and missed and led him into the ballroom, where the faces of the dead waited. After eighty-three years of life, he was finally home._

* * *

His youngest son Frédéric found him the next morning, lying motionless in the armchair by the fireplace. With his head leaning against his shoulder and a blue book in his lap, it looked like he was merely sleeping. The doctor later reported that he had died of natural causes.

They held the funeral for him two weeks later. As the pallbearers lowered his casket into the earth next to his wife, Frédéric felt sad, but also happy, knowing from his father's journal that he'd lived a full and meaningful life.

The tale of the Beast, which both his parents had written about in great detail, surprised neither Frédéric nor his siblings. They all knew the story growing up, and for the longest time, accepted it as part of their family's history. But as adults, some began to question its credibility. Maybe their parents had exaggerated some parts of the narrative. Maybe the Beast was a metaphor. Maybe the hunter named Gaston didn't really exist.

But as an idealistic child who had grown into an idealistic man, Frédéric was certain that all of it was true.

He kept his parents' journal close to him for many years. And when his own time came, he passed the book to his son, hoping that future generations would read their ancestors' words and know that love was always possible, even in the most hopeless of circumstances.


End file.
